pluto
it's the way that people's lips roll back over their teeth when they talk about travel-- "you should" "you need to" "you can't miss it" "you deserve it" "might as well" "do it while you can" and so on and so forth. i've leaned into it, and i do it myself sometimes, but i still have to muzzle the urge to bite. i don't know why it feels me with such a rotten feeling when someone tells me to go. maybe i just want someone to tell me to stay.
old human in the morning
in the evening, must be bathed
before it could talk, who kept it alive?
it’s too shameful to ask for help
but the dirt of life piles on
and one must be bathed
you are when the moon is beautiful, and all the words i hate to use: honey, slow and sweet, sticky and hot. the tighter you hold me the better, he said. but we’re not going anywhere. the sky is dark. the last train calls.
still:: (they) wants to be the pop star they never was. spins and 15 years compile upon your blankets, your drawers. butterfly and resistance
the umbilical cord and the electrical turquoise
she lost the bedroom .
the butterfly sequins shudder on your memory/migration and the monarch’s history, orange flap flap mur mur, on the wind, virginity, once hailed, the fantasy
of ages and ages
i used to fear the turn of his eyes like in a plane nose down hurtling towards the sea white knuckles and white white white, the color of terror, the terror of the end. i know i should fear it again but it feels like crack, white white white, soft cloud of heaven, the bliss of the end.
hollowed out, coat on coat, needles of light streak across like puppet strings. the sickly cramp of joy soaks, peels. a tidal rush of garbage and the skin is sucked away. clean. i can't stop myself, i keep coming back here, where existence is easy-- it's simply where everyone else ends.
i want to flow from your fingertips. i want to be a womb when you touch my belly, the hollow of hell. open the portal, the one that will dissolve me; and let me know what it feels like to be mother, to be death.